Thanksgiving’s on Thursday and, as usual, we’re tinkering with the shopping list. I’ve heard that there’s a guy who can determine how long your family’s been in the country and other details about it by having you describe your Thanksgiving meal.
“Well, we have turkey and cranberry sauce, of course,” I said to my sister who was telling me about this.
“You said ‘of course,’ ” she said. “See, he would say that means your family’s been in America for a while.”
This is true and, of course, my sister would know. I have since discovered that while no one in my line arrived on the Mayflower, the European ones weren’t far behind. The Dutch barrel maker in New Amsterdam; the Anglo-Irish brothers in Virginia. Meanwhile, over on the Pacific coast, some other ancestors were probably going about building totem poles ignorant of the seeds of their own cultural demise arriving on those distant shores.
It’s been nearly 400 years since the Pilgrims (aka religious zealots) arrived and a bit less since what I suspect were some of my more desperate or opportunistic ancestors arrived. I don’t know all of their histories–I suspect some of them would appall me with their cruelty and others would awe me with the strength of their faith–just as do the stories of far more notable immigrants than my ancestors (or at least ones who kept journals and recorded stories.)
I have a friend, first-generation–neither she nor her family celebrate Thanksgiving. She associates Thanksgiving with the destruction of Native Americans by European settlers. I gritted my teeth and girded my loins and Googled to find out the latest revisionist history. After giving it a look-through, I’ve decided that while there is a terrible history regarding the European settlers and the Native Americans, the Pilgrims actually behaved better than most. The Mayflower Compact held for 50 years, during the lifetime of those who signed it. Some Pilgrims behaved better than others, but the original feast had sort of the right idea–share the harvest and get along with those people who don’t look like you. Both the Pilgrims and the welcoming tribes had kind of the right idea–unfortunately, peace kind of went to hell later on.
So Thanksgiving survived Google scrutiny. And a good thing, for me, not celebrating Thanksgiving would seem a terrible absence and I’ve gone out of my way to celebrate each and every one–including two overseas. “Of course” I celebrate it with all of (my family’s) fixings. For years, this even included brussels sprouts and mincemeat pie when neither I nor my husband like either of them. (I finally stopped this brand of martyrdom about two years ago.)
And, just the way a tradition’s supposed to, preparing those foods makes me think of those who came before–the grandmother who taught me how to roll pie-crust. No doubt she’d learned how from her grandmother–just like that pie-rolling reaching back 150 years to a farmhouse in Ohio. Go back a little more and it’s piecrust rolling in Virginia.
Other things are more recent. My father took over the turkey and the stuffing. He had a way with a roast, just as, no doubt, did his grandfather the English blacksmith. The stuffing: prunes, apples, almonds was a bit of a mystery to me as a child. I didn’t know of another family with one like it. Then I found the same thing in a German cookbook–for stuffing a goose. So now I think of Ursula Sachs sailing away from the restless German states–one nearly anonymous young woman in the great waves of the 19th century immigration. I would say I think of her when I combine the onion, celery, bread, fruit and nuts–but the truth is all I know of her, really, is this dressing. I can’t even say it’s a recipe–certainly, my father never wrote it down. I think I wrote it down for my mother-in-law once–but truth is, I wing it.
Thanksgiving apple, prune, almond stuffing–also massively suitable for a goose.
1 bag bread stuffing
About 6 roughly chopped prunes
two to three outer stalks of chopped celery
two peeled and chopped apples–tart and green seems to work best
one package–around a half cup of slivered almonds
Around a cup of raisins
One chopped white onions.
salt and pepper to taste
Melted butter
Toss together all the ingredients except the butter. Moisten then with butter–but not too much. Stuff into small turkey. If dealing with larger amounts, double recipe. Extra stuffing can, of course, become dressing. In which case, moisten dressing with turkey or chicken stock occasionally while baking. If dressing is in the oven for a long time, cover if it seems to be drying out.
I do not doubt that this stuffing could be improved by the less tradition bound. It works well as a stuffing because it is moister than most and thus survives the all-too-common overcooking of the turkey. It stands up well to the other components of Thanksgiving–tart cranberry sauce, bitter brussels sprouts, gamy dark leg meat. While not one of the killer-calorie dressings, it is not for the bland-of-heart–the onion and dried fruit give it a pungency, a certain acidity that cuts throught the carbohydrate tryptophane haze. It is assertive and earthy instead of carefully modulated to appeal to all tastes. A little bit of Bavaria then that somehow didn’t get quite assimilated into my generically European-American family.
